To talk about my hair. What the ever lovin GRAY!?
I decided to be a big bad grown up recently. Do a thing I have never really done before in my whole grown up life. I went to a hair salon and dyed my hair. I mean, I only sorta went adult about it. I did go to Aveda and paid very little to have a student dye my hair but shut-up. Baby steps.
And I’m GLAD I didn’t shell out a billion dollars for a dye job and slice up (also known as a cut and color) because DUH DUH DUH…drumroll please.
The amount of gray hair that has crept out around my temples is obscene. And and and, I have generally straight hair anyway, pretty long and thin and limp and boringly mousy brown. It just kinda lays flat against my head no matter what I try to do with it. But these three hairs. Directly in the front. In what would be the widow peak area if I had a widow’s peak. Are short. Gray. And standing at direct attention ALL THE TIME! NO MATTER HOW MANY TIMES I YANK THEM OUT.
I’m thirty five this weekend. 35. I hate it. I don’t want it. I don’t think gray makes me look distinguished. I don’t think laugh lines and sunspots make me feel accomplished and mature. I am vain. And old. And elderly by theatre standards. And I just want boring mousy hair that lightens in the sun but grows all the way down my back without splitting and breaking. And a flat if not toned tummy that looks less like the blob in a bathing suit so I can be concerned about the roll when I sit and not the jiggle and muffin top when I am standing as straight as can be sucking in as hard as humane and covering with as much strategic hand and towel placement as possible. And two separate legs at the top when I stand AND when I walk. And smooth clear skin like I had when I was 20 and did not appreciate. That is what I want for my birthday. Make it so. Miracles people, it’s not that hard.